


Tell Him

by pinesbrosfalls (fangirl0430)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, Ford just can't catch a break, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm having a hard time figuring out what to tag this as without giving too much away..., Just didn't think it belonged under the G rating..., Mild Language, Mind Games, Nightmares, Panic, Paranoid Grunkle Ford, Rated for Mild Language and Descriptions of Violence, Sea Grunkles, Stan O' War, so stop reading the tags now if you want to avoid spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-30 23:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl0430/pseuds/pinesbrosfalls
Summary: A beautiful day at sea leads to an unexpected conversation about the past that Ford has a very hard time talking about.The only thing is, maybe the past isn't as long ago as it seems.





	1. Fool Me Once

There’s something oddly serene about the water today.

Ford can’t quite put his finger on exactly what it is, try as hard as he might. The waves are gentle, lapping against the hull of the boat and making the deck beneath his feet rock almost imperceptibly, the motion more lulling than anything. A soft breeze brushes against his cheeks, cards through his hair, carrying the familiar tang of salt and iodine and whistling quietly in his ears. The late-afternoon sun glints off the small waves, reminding him faintly of electricity as it dances across the water, the light scattering and sparkling as far as the eye can see, the smooth waters meeting sky miles away where the Earth curves out of view. A few clouds lazily drift across the bright blue sky, though none move to block out the sun, content to skirt the horizon in the idle breeze.

The entire scene just feels idyllic, like a perfect snapshot out of a travel brochure, almost too calm, too beautiful to be real. And yet, here he stands, leaning against the boat railing and watching the waves disappear over the end of the Earth, the boat swaying gently as if rocking him to sleep, everything perfectly tranquil, perfectly relaxed. There’s nowhere to run to, no need to hide, no adventure to chase after; today, there’s just this, the calm without the storm.

Though, he guesses the storm could be just over the horizon, an impending doom ready to strike when he least expects it. It wouldn’t be the first-time life took him by surprise. It probably wouldn’t be the last. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that life is always ready to throw another punch, and he needs to be prepared for it at all times. Even a stunning day like today could turn sour if—

“I see that brain of yours trying to work overtime, Sixer,” Stan chuckles, coming up from behind him and interrupting his thoughts. “Relax a little, buddy. Enjoy the view.” He leans against the railing just to his left, whistling low. “I mean, damn, have you ever seen the water that blue?” Ford lets out a dry laugh, closing his eyes to just feel the wind against his face, trying to dispel the negative thoughts lingering in his mind. They say that old habits die hard, and he guesses that anyone living on the run for 30 years of their life would be a little prone to imagining every worst-case scenario and never letting their guard down. It’s something he’s still getting used to now, actually getting to relax once in a while.

“I was honestly just thinking about how beautiful the water is today,” Ford says, opening his eyes again and shooting his brother a wry smile. Stan looks unimpressed, an eyebrow raising in his direction.

“Uh huh. You forget that it’s less than useless to lie to me, bro. I know you too well.” Ford snorts, rolling his eyes dramatically, though he doesn’t bother hiding his smile. Stan holds an opened beer out towards him, and Ford accepts it, the glass bottle cold in his hand. “Just forget it all for one day. The world will keep spinning even if the Pines decide to take a day off.”             

“I guess tomorrow can wait until tomorrow,” Ford concedes, tilting his bottle towards Stan’s with a smirk. Stan grins back at him.

“Now _that’s_ something I can toast to.” Stan clinks their bottles together before taking a long pull on his beer. Ford takes a sip from his, content to turn his attention back to the water and the glitter of the sun, letting himself get lost in it and the gentle rocking of the boat. It’s trance-like, he realizes, the soft, rhythmic sounds of the water slapping the hull combined with the gentle motion and the shimmering waves, like a form of hypnosis that helps to clear the worried thoughts from his mind and leaves him more relaxed than he thinks he’s ever been. Stan heaves a sigh next to him.

“This is the life,” he rasps, and Ford glances over to see that his brother is also watching the horizon, seeming as taken by it as he is.

“You said it,” Ford agrees, taking another sip of his beer. A bit of the perspiration on the outside of the bottle drips down his fingers, leaving a cool trail in its wake.

“Say, um, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Stan says, turning his whole body against the railing so that he’s leaning on his side now, facing Ford.

“Yes?” Ford says, turning his head to look at his brother, his eyebrows drawing together slightly at the mild apprehension in his brother’s appearance.

“What did Bill want from you during Weirdmageddon?”

There’s a moment, a short burst of time, when Ford’s brain processes the question. Hell, maybe it was longer than a moment, because there’s a span when he just stares at his brother, his mind skipping like a scratched record as the question turns-over in his head. He doesn’t really know how long he stands there, a momentary short-circuit before his brain finally catches back up with him and he realizes exactly what was asked.

It was an innocent question, he knows, born of an understandable curiosity. If he was in Stanley’s shoes, he’d want to know the one thing that stopped the end of the world, the one thing that almost got them all tortured or killed or _worse_. Of _course_ he’d be curious. And hell, it’s not like the question is even a loaded one anymore, now that it’s all over and the answer no longer has the ability to destroy the entire universe. Now, it’s trivial, meaningless, useless in the grand scheme of things.

So why did his hands just start shaking?

“Sixer?”

_Ready to talk yet?_

“Oh god, Ford, I’m sorry. Breathe, buddy. Forget I even asked. I shouldn’t’ve—”

“No no no,” Ford stammers, pulling himself out of whatever depths he’d just been yanked down into, out of the screams and the unending pain and the fear that he wouldn’t be able to hold out, that the triangle _bastard_ would break him, shoving the memories back into the recesses of his mind where he can deal with them later. “No, I’m fine I just,” he sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose, just now aware of how flushed his face suddenly feels, “it caught me off-guard is all.”

“You sure?” Stan asks apprehensively.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he assures him, though he’s still having a hard time dragging his mind back to a normal pace, his brain still running at a thousand miles-per-hour, his pulse just slightly too fast in his ears. “It was an equation,” Ford tells him, letting the words leave his mouth before his stupid brain comes up with some convoluted reason not to. His brother deserves to know.

“An equation?” Stan asks, confused. “That’s it?”

“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Ford tells him. “Did I ever tell you about the True Theory of Weirdness? About how something in Gravity Falls makes the entire town act like a weirdness magnet?”

“Rings a bell, yeah,” Stan nods his head.

“Well, this equation was a mathematical model that, when employed in the real world, would in theory collapse the magnetic properties of the town and allow Bill to escape the city,” Ford says. Part of him thinks it feels good to finally tell another living soul about all this. Part of him can’t imagine why his heart is still pounding. Maybe it has something to do with all the hours spent in agonizing, unending pain to prevent those words and then some from being revealed. Maybe it’s because he still has a hard time truly believing it’s all over.

“Oh, wow,” Stan says, rubbing his chin. He glances back out at sea, as if in thought, and then Ford swears he hears him say something, the sound muffled by the breeze.

“Sorry Stan, what did you say?” he asks.

“I said, what was the equation?”

Something in Ford’s mind grinds to a halt, like a train screeching to a stop on its tracks.

“It’s pr-pretty advanced, Stanley,” he stammers, his mind struggling to switch back on, shoving back memories of every nerve ending being lit on fire, the pain never ending, screaming so hard that his throat went raw and bled, the taste of copper and fire on his tongue, that laughter— “It would probably just look like nonsense to you.”

“I can handle it,” Stan says. There was something in his brother’s tone, an indifference that seemed out-of-place, forced. He’s still looking out at sea.

 “Why do you want to know?” Ford asks, berating himself for being so defensive because this is his _brother_ for Pete’s sake. But yet, there’s that part of him, that part that scribbled all-seeing eyes and hasty warnings in leather-bound journals all those years ago that wonders, that still has a hard time trusting.

“Just curious,” Stan shrugs, still looking out at sea, beer still loosely held in his hand.

That small part of Ford, the part that almost drove him mad all those years ago, warns that there is something wrong here.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ford says, dismissing the topic. “It’s useless now. Best to just move on.”

“Oh, come on, Sixer,” Stan says, finally turning to face him. “What’s the harm now? You said it yourself. It’s over.”

_He’s right. I did say that._

_Didn’t I say that?_

Ford looks into Stan’s eyes, finding just pure curiosity there, a quizzical tilt to his head.

_If Stan really is just curious, what’s the harm?_

_Just tell him._

_It’s not like it’ll hurt anything._

_Tell him._

“Stan, I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” Ford says instead. “It’s a… hard topic as it is. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore. Please, just drop it.”

“But you said it yourself. It’s just a simple equation. Maybe you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

“Stan, I said to drop it.”

“What, do you not _trust_ me or something?” His voice, his tone, seems annoyed, his words short and curt, clipped. But his eyes haven’t changed, that open curiosity still plastered on his face. The combination doesn’t make sense, doesn’t seem right. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, like there’s a disconnect between the two things.

_This is wrong. This is so wrong._

He glances down at his own hands, counts the fingers. _1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12._ Counts them again. _1-2-3-4_ —

“Pal, what’s wrong?” Stan asks.

He glances around at his surroundings, looking for anything out of place. But there’s just ocean, and more ocean, water surrounding him in every direction, the boat solid under his feet, the cabin door just behind Stanley.

What does the inside of the cabin look like? Can he remember?

“Sixer? You still with me, buddy?”

What was he doing before this conversation? He was looking out at the water. It was a calm day, the water was smooth, he was listening to the breeze and the waves.

He listens again, but it’s silent, not even the sound of the waves hitting the sides of the boat audible, though the deck still softly rocks side-to-side, as if the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for his response.

He shakes his head.

What was he doing before that? He must’ve been doing something before that. He remembers… He remembers…

Except, he can’t remember. He can’t remember waking up this morning. He can’t remember going to bed last night. He can’t remember how long they’ve been at sea or where they were last docked or when they decided to sail together or how exactly they stopped Weirdmageddon or how he escaped Bill. He can’t remember…

He glances over at his Stan, looking down at his brother’s hand, watching a drop of water from his beer bottle slide down his fingers, one finger after the other after the other…

1-2-3-4-5-

He reaches into the pocket of the jacket he wasn’t wearing a moment ago, pulls out his gun, and shoots his brother square in the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after going back and re-watching "The Last Mabelcorn", I came to the conclusion that the metal plate in Ford's head can only stop Bill from going into his head and/or possessing him. But, it doesn't stop Bill from manipulating his dreamscape (hence, Bill visits him in his dream). So, what if while Bill was ~~torturing~~ trying to get the equation from Ford, he set up elaborate dreams to try and trick Ford into willingly giving him the answer?
> 
> ~~I'm new to this fandom so I don't know if this was thought of yet, but I had the idea and decided to follow it down the rabbit hole, so sorry if this isn't a new "theory"/"idea".~~
> 
> The little things that Ford tries at the end (counting his fingers, checking his surroundings for anything out of place, trying to remember things that happened before, etc.) are all methods that people use to determine if they're dreaming and try to become lucid (lucid dreaming is really interesting to read about if that interests you at all). I'd assume that Ford picked up a few of these habits to try and protect himself against Bill (at least, I would if I was him).
> 
> Chapter 2 coming soon!
> 
> Check me out on [Tumblr](https://pinesbrosfalls.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Fool Me Twice

He wakes up with a start, a scream caught in his throat, his whole body drenched in a cold sweat.

_It was only a dream. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. It was only a—_

“Sixer?”

He jumps, throwing himself against the wall next to his bunk, hitting his shoulder hard enough to make him grunt but not enough to stop him from reaching under his pillow for his gun that’s always there, that he could never sleep without. He has it out and ready, the safety off, pointed out in front of him as he curls up against the wall. Stan comes into view a moment later.

“Get back,” he warns, taking aim. Stan’s—no, _Bill’s_ , that’s _not_ your brother—eyes go wide, and he takes a step back, away from Ford’s bunk.

“Woah Ford, easy there,” Stan says, hands coming up in a placating manner. But Ford won’t fall for it, knows better than to trust this. He doesn’t recognize the room, doesn’t remember ever falling asleep, knows better than to fall for another of Bill’s tricks. He _won’t_ give in. He _can’t_ give in. Bill can’t find out the equation, no matter the cost. Stan takes a small step forward, and Ford tenses. “Ford, put down the gun—”

“I said get back!” Ford screams. “I won’t fall for it, Cipher! Give it up!”

“Ford, what are you talking…” St—Bill says with Stan’s voice, trailing off. A look of understanding passes over his face, and Ford prepares for the worst, ready for the attack.

It doesn’t come. Instead, Stan takes another step back, giving him some space, still facing Ford with his hands up.

“Ford, it’s me,” he says softly, like he’s talking to a scared animal. Ford bristles.

“Like hell,” he spits, pressing himself further against the wall. “Get the fuck out of my head. I know this is just another dream.”

“Remember when we were ten or eleven,” Stan says calmly, “and we were swinging on that swing set on Glass Shard beach, and the chain on my swing broke. You got two rocks and an old wire hanger, climbed up there, and fixed it yourself? You remember that? I spent the whole time afraid you’d fall and hurt yourself, but you got that swing good as new.”

“Can it,” Ford hisses. “You were in my head years ago. You know all about my old memories. I’m not stupid.”

“Okay then, during the summer, with Dipper and Mabel,” Stan—no Bill, stop confusing the two! — tries, still looking right into his eyes. Bill’s getting good if he can fake that level of sincere worry in an expression. “Right around the time after the kids and I got back from our road trip, you came up from the basement one morning for breakfast. Mabel made those horrendously sweet pancakes, and both of us faked eating them before feeding them to Waddles under the table. You remember that?”

“I…” Ford stammers, feeling his resolve weaken the slightest bit, wondering how Bill really could have known that if it was after the barrier was up. But then he tightens his grip on the gun again, steeling himself, his finger still on the trigger. “You could’ve been spying.”

“A few days ago, right before we left port in the Keys,” he keeps going. “I was flirting with that hot broad, and you came over and plopped down next to her, dropped some horrible line about getting ‘two for the price of one’, and scared her off. You wouldn’t stop smirking at me, all proud-like, for the next hour.”

“I don’t remember that,” Ford says. Yet, a clear picture comes to mind of Stan sitting on a park bench next to a woman probably a decade younger than them, telling some crazy, harrowing tale of adventure that they’d been on only weeks prior. His grip on the gun loosens, his mind reeling.

“Yesterday, while we were passing though the Bermuda Triangle, the fog rolled in real thick and nasty smelling, and you were saying something about fart gas—”

“Methane vents, Stanley.”

“Right. Methane. Whatever. But then, the fog started moving and shifting! And we realized that the fog was actually alive, little shapes and figures dancing through it like some creepy ballet or something. I was busy trying to steer us out of there, and you were trying to make me stop so you could sketch it in your notebook.” Stan—Bill?—reaches over onto the table next to him, picking up a small gray notebook and flipping through the pages quickly, turning the book around to show him detailed drawings and writings, barely legible from this distance but definitely his work, of fog-shrouded creatures and swirling mists. “You see? I thought you were gonna try to jump overboard to get a closer look, was afraid I’d have to tie you down to the mast.” He chuckles, turning the book back around, gently touching the pages with his fingertips, a soft, nostalgic smile dancing across his lips for a second before he flips back further into the book.

Ford’s fingers brush the bedspread, the gun lowered, but still in hand. Stan flips the book back around to show him another page, this one littered with tons of quick, small sketches that he can’t see from this distance.

“That first island that we stopped by after we left Gravity Falls,” he says. “There were those weird gnats that were each shaped like a different letter of the alphabet. And when they bit you, they made you forget what you were saying.”

Ford finds himself leaning forward a little bit, trying to get a better look at the hasty sketches and words on the page. The title in the top left corner of the page declares “Alphabugs”, and that makes him smile because yeah, that sounds like something he’d name them. His finger leaves the trigger of the gun.

“And then, um,” Stan says, turning the book back around and flipping through the pages again, his eyes quickly scanning for something in particular, the scratch of the pages against one another familiar, comforting in a way. Ford takes in a deep breath, realizing for the first time that his heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest, thumping almost painfully against his ribcage. “There were those weird skeleton seagulls that tried to follow the boat for a while.”

_They had bones in place of feathers on their wings, hair-thin and lightweight enough to produce the lift necessary for flight, though not prolonged flight because they kept landing on the boat every couple of minutes to try and peck at their shoelaces._

“Here,” Stan says, turning the book around and holding it out towards him with one hand, the other outstretched and empty, a soft smile on his face while doing so. Ford stares, the gun still heavy in his hands even though they are now resting on the cotton sheets under him. _300 thread count cotton, just soft enough to be comfortable, but still sturdy, a certain lack of softness that he grew accustomed to in his time travelling dimensions._ He lifts the gun, not pointing, holding it out in one hand, his other reaching towards the journal, not quite close enough to touch, still hesitant.

He looks at his brother’s outstretched hand.

1-2-3-4-5. 1-2-3-4-5. 1-2-3-4-5.

He looks up at his face, that smile soft and patient, open, familiar.

He puts the gun in his brother’s hand, taking the journal and bringing the open pages to his chest, hugging it close, breathing in the familiar smell of paper-glue and ocean brine embedded in the paper, closing his eyes as he lets it ground him, his fingers running along the edges of the pages.

There’s a soft _clunk_ as Stan puts the gun down on the table next to him.

“How… How did we beat Bill?” Ford asks, his voice cracked and brittle.

“We erased him from existence,” Stan says matter-of-factly. “He’s gone. Do you remember that day?”

“I—I’m not sure.” He thinks he remembers, but it’s hard. His whole mind is a haze, images and memories shifting into and out of focus, some clearer than others, his thoughts muffled and dulled, his brain feeling like it’s suspended in cotton. Everything feels distant, hollow, somewhere between real and not real. It’s disconcerting, the fact that he still barely feels like the room he’s in is familiar, as if it’s part of a long-forgotten dream.

“He—He always got your hands wrong.”

“What?”

“Bill,” Ford says, his voice barely a whisper, as if he’s afraid of saying the words out-loud. “He—He would construct these elaborate dreamscapes, lure me into a false sense of security, usually using… usually using you to do it. He would—would try to get me to tell him the equation, the one that… that he needed to escape Gravity Falls. But he could never get your hands right.”

“My hands?”

“Yeah. I think because… because we’re twins, he just assumed you—you also had my polydactyly. That’s how I would know it was a dream. When I looked at your hands, I’d… know. You’d have too many fingers.”

“Oh,” Stan says, the sound hollow to Ford’s ears.

He stays there, clutching the book, letting it drag him back to reality, piece together whatever it can of his mind. A few minutes pass before he finally opens his eyes, looking down at the page the book is open to.

 _Sea skulls_ , the page reads, skeleton gulls drawn in meticulous detail, close-up views of the wings drawn with careful descriptions of bone structure and ligament joints.

A drop of water lands on the page, followed in quick succession by a few more, splattering on the page and barely smearing the pen ink. It takes him a moment to realize it’s not raining and that the roof above his head isn’t leaking. He pulls the journal close again, curling around it as tears stream down his face, his breath hitching. It’s only a few moments later that two arms wrap around him, pulling him close, enveloping him in warmth, security. Ford grips onto his brother with one hand, the other still holding onto the book. He doesn’t even have it in him to feel bad about leaving tearstains on his shirt.

“You gonna be okay, Sixer?” Stan asks, his voice soft, concerned. Ford nods his head, not trusting himself to speak without it breaking him. It’s like all of this, this hurt and pain and fear, has built up for so long, like a dam about to burst, and this was just the sledgehammer to the wall. He feels like he’s one small gust of wind away from shattering, like he’s just barely pulled all the pieces together and it’s all he can do to keep them from falling and turning to dust. But god, if he won’t hold them tight, press the shards back together until he’s whole again. He has to. He _has_ to.

“I’m here, buddy,” Stan murmurs, pulling him closer. “I’m here.”

And if he ever thinks he can’t do it alone, at least now, he knows he doesn’t have to.

* * *

 

A while later, after Ford finally cried himself out and fell back asleep, Stan makes his way out to the deck of the boat, the sun still inching its way up the sky, the waves rhythmically bobbing the boat up and down, slapping against the carbon-fiber hull.

Stan walks over to the railing, looking out over the sparkling blue water for a moment before smiling down at his hand, flexing each finger carefully, methodically, his lips pulling just too tight against his teeth, the sun glinting yellow across his glasses.

“Just five, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't think you were getting a happy ending... *insert maniacal laughter*
> 
> So a few explanations as to some of the content of this chapter... This chapter doesn't necessarily immediately follow the first one. This could have occurred many dreamscapes later. So, in my head, some of the post-Weirdmageddon memories that Ford "remembers" are actually old dreams, possibly ones that Bill set-up just for this scenario. Which would explain why those memories feel muddy and faint. It's not just Ford panicking (though the panic certainly doesn't help). Bill probably ran him through hundreds of dreams (and it wouldn't take forever if you work under the assumption that dreams don't occur in real-time, so an hour in a dream may only be a few minutes in reality). Also, this would explain how Bill's Stan impersonation got so much better (he got lots of practice after hundreds of dreamscapes).
> 
> Also, I'm not trying to play at Bill predicting his own death with the whole "we erased him from existence" line. It was literally the most vague statement he could make regarding the matter, and then he immediately re-directed it to Ford to avoid possibly incriminating details. His statement just so happens to closely mirror what actually happens (which was purposeful on my part because not only do I have to try to convince Ford, but I'm also trying to convince you guys... Lol).
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also, if you didn't catch it on the first read through, in the first chapter, the reason that Ford shoots "Stan" is because he counted his fingers ("1-2-3-4-5-").~~
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed my first Gravity Falls fic! I had a lot of fun writing it and may or may not write another one some day (just keep an eye out for if I get random inspiration once my life gets a little less hectic)!
> 
> Check me out on [Tumblr](https://pinesbrosfalls.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
